


Cindy's Coffee Shop

by luvanderwon, moonix



Category: Havemercy Series - Jaida Jones & Danielle Bennett
Genre: Airmen are awful, Everyone Is Gay, Grumpy Thom, Hal is a party animal, Hal is made of awesome and cute, Modern AU, Multi, Nobody is Dead, Raphael is a poetic disaster, You wish you had Caius' wardrobe, ain't no party like an Airman party, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3956461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvanderwon/pseuds/luvanderwon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonix/pseuds/moonix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hal is a cute barista, Thom is a grumpy student, Caius is a child postgrad prodigy, Royston is not actually a Professor but he does love coffee and crosswords, Luvander is dashing and all the Airmen are atrocious. Everyone is gay and no one dies. Staking a claim on the coffee shop AU, fight us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cindy's Coffee Shop

**Author's Note:**

> We set this in Cambridge because - jazz hands - guess who works in a coffee shop in Cambridge! Spoiler it's only one of us. So, Cambridge, Volstovised. Enjoy.

**Hal**

It was always quiet when Hal and Thom opened together. For a start, they both liked to arrive early and make the most of the hour before opening to set up and share breakfast. Hal brewed tea while he wiped the tables and turned on the coffee machine, arranged the day’s cakes and doodled a new sign for soup of the day. Thom would take over the kitchen, preparing the salads ready for lunch time, scrambling eggs in advance of breakfast, and running to the market for fresh bread. When he got back, the tea would be ready and he’d make toast, and the two of them would sit together on the stairs to the kitchen, soaking up the silence before they had to open the doors to students, tourists, and airmen.

They both wore the signs of not-sleeping high on their cheeks, shadows smudged under their eyes and a thick heaviness to their movements pre-caffeine. Hal supposed they shared a reason for their joint lack of rest, if not with equal cause – Thom was studying so of course he’d be up all night with his books and his notes and his clever ideas. Hal was up all night with books too, but that was just because he couldn’t put them down.

Come to think of it, Thom wasn’t even supposed to be here on a Monday morning – on Mondays Hal usually opened with Charlotte. He nudged Thom’s knee with his own, the plate of toast balanced between them wobbling precariously. “Charlotte sick?” he asked, and swallowed a gulp of tea to warm his throat up; the words having come out scratchy like his voice was still in his bed.

Thom nodded. “She was working the pub last night,” he grimaced, “I called in for something and she didn’t look too good – told her to text me if she wanted to sleep in today. Said she might be in lunch time. I haven’t got any classes though, so I don’t mind. Can use the money.”

“Oh,” Hal nodded, “of course, you’ve finished your finals, right?”

“Right,” Thom pulled a face again, “and summer break starts in three weeks, so we get more tourists and worse airmen and even less time to read.”

“You’re so positive,” Hal grinned as he climbed to his feet, picking up his half-drained mug of tea to take back to the counter. “I’m going to fetch the papers and we can open, alright?”

“Nice timing,” Thom said wryly, and Hal pretended not to notice.

The thing was Professor Royston always turned up at Cindy's five minutes after opening, like clockwork, with his newspaper tucked under his arm, for his hour-long morning latte. It was Hal’s favourite hour of the day, and he’d discovered – purely by accident – that if he left it until right before opening to go to the shop for the papers, he’d often meet the Professor buying his while he was at it. Then they’d walk back to the café together, with Royston sometimes making small talk (and sometimes not, because he never spoke very much before his latte – Thom insisted that he made up for that after it, when he talked too much). Hal wasn’t infatuated with him, exactly, except for the part where he was; the part where he was horrified by the idea of anybody else making Royston’s morning latte because he’d got it down to a fine art, and there was nothing better in the world than Royston’s smile when he told Hal it was _perfect, as usual_. “I can’t just tell him I’m in love with him,” Hal had explained to Thom once when they were closing up and washing the last of the dishes, “but I can make his coffee exactly how he likes it.”

“You probably could tell him,” Thom had replied, “I’ve seen him looking at you over the top of the paper, when you’re reading behind the counter and your hair’s in your eyes and you’re doing that cute thing where you chew all innocently on the end of your thumb.”

“I never read when Royston’s here,” Hal had pretended to be shocked.

“Oh, I know that,” Thom had agreed. “That’s why I’m surprised you haven’t noticed him watching you, because we both know your book is just a façade so that _you_ can watch _him_.”

To Hal’s gut-heavy disappointment, his timing was off today.

Professor Royston’s, however, was as spot-on as usual, strolling into the café at exactly 09:35, newspaper under one arm. He murmured a good morning to Hal, who was trying not to chew on the stick of chalk as he decided what witty yet customer-friendly catchphrase he could scrawl on the A-board outside the door today. Scrambling up to serve his favourite customer – the board could wait five minutes – Hal allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. Even in his distracted state, he’d remembered to bring the chalk back inside with him. One time he’d forgotten, and then there had been an unusual number of morning customers so it had stayed forgotten, and then some of the airmen had turned up demanding their late breakfasts and by the time they’d left there had been all sorts of obscenities written on the board out the front. Luckily, Hal had managed to wipe them off before Thom came up from the kitchen and spotted the advertisement claiming him to be ‘purveyor of fine blow jobs’.

Making Royston’s latte was a work of art even before Hal had started experimenting with actual latte art. Originally, that experiment had been an accident – one day he’s just swivelled the milk jug just right and made a heart. For fifteen seconds, he’d panicked and nearly thrown it away because that was too obvious, wasn’t it? Where was the guile and the mystery and the enticement in just handing over a heart-patterned mug of coffee to his secret crush? And then Royston had glanced at him and his face seemed to say _where is that coffee Hal, I am thirsting for coffee and only you can make it_ , so he’d handed it over anyway.

There hadn’t been any comment on the heart, and Hal thought maybe it would have wavered and dissipated into the drink and not really looked so much like a heart by the time it was on Royston’s table anyway, and it wasn’t like he’d made it on purpose. It had, however, sparked some creative interest in the back of his brain and he’d spent the next week perfecting leaves and rosettas in the top of his coffee for afternoon customers; only delivering morning latte art to Royston once he felt confident that he could make it to perfection.

That had been six months ago, though, and six months makes a lot of coffee pouring practice when you work in a café five days a week. Especially a café in a student town populated by hangovers, distracted lecturers who forget to go to bed, international students from countries which prefer coffee to tea, and – of course – the airmen. Who, Hal often felt vaguely, linguistically irritated to remember, had nothing to do with flying whatsoever. Flat-bottomed pole-driven punting boats did not remotely resemble flying. He’d never actually dared to ask any of them why they called themselves the airmen, how that had even become a thing, but Charlotte had explained one day with a roll of her eyes that it was only because they always drank beer in The Flying Punter pub.

Today, Hal was perfecting a latte heart which was far, far superior to his first attempt six months back.

One day, he was going to work out how to make words with the milk, without using the stencils. Hal only used the stencils for chocolate sprinkles on cappuccinos, now, and he was extremely proud about that.

Royston murmured a thank you and then, before Hal had quite returned to his place behind the counter, glanced up from his crossword and said “in the ballad it runs westward, ebbing and flowing.” Hal blushed, immediately mistaking this for a line of poetry and fishing frantically through his store of memorised quotes to work out where it might be from. Then Royston tapped the crossword with his pencil and added “any idea?” and Hal realised it was a clue, and he was being asked for help.

Well. It wasn’t poetry, but it wasn’t a bad start, either.

He frowned, and bit his lips together for a moment, running the clue through his head. In the ballad it runs backwards, ebbing and flowing. Easy. _Tidal_. “Hmm,” he said, and allowed himself to slide into the chair opposite Royston’s. Their knees touched under the table, and Hal had to put his palms flat on the surface and take a deep breath. “Run it by me again?” he asked – because if there was one way to end this conversation before it had even started, it would be to just give Royston the answer.

For another fifteen minutes, Hal strung this knee-touching, hand-trembling scene out, pretending that he didn’t know the answer and that surely Royston didn’t either, surely he was playing the same game. That made him feel less creepy and also less like a precocious upstart with one up on the Professor. Hal was just very good at cryptic crossword clues. He’d call it a skill; only – like latte art and being a fast reader – it wasn’t exactly the route to a glittering career somewhere.

When the door opened again it made Hal jump and he scrambled clumsily to his feet as Royston carefully slid his precious coffee out of table-rocking danger. They’d barely spoken, bar the occasional suggestion of a (strategically wrong) crossword answer and some soft humming over the clue ( _tidal!_ Hal’s treacherous brain kept shrieking at him internally, _come on, it’s so easy!_ ) Even so, the last fifteen minutes had already preserved themselves for Hal in a softly-filtered, dreamy glow, as if they’d taken place on instagram, he thought, getting to his feet and wiping his hands on his apron – printer’s ink and nervous sweat on his fingers.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said when he remembered to look at the customer. “You’re early.”

“Indeed,” Caius Greylace sighed, sliding into his favourite chair – the bench with the plush cushions by the counter. He curled his feet up under him and clasped his delicate hands with their polished and manicured fingernails together, peering at Hal from one bright blue eye. As usual, the other was hidden beneath a strategic sweep of his silverlight hair.

Hal emptied the coffee filter without asking, grinding some fresh beans for Caius’ hazelnut mocha, stirring the hot chocolate powder into a paste as the grinder spluttered and buzzed. Caius was wearing mauve today – paisley mauve and gold harem trousers and a delicate black lace vest, the hair on the left side of his face twisted and pinned in elaborate patterns secured with tiny abalone shell clips. A single lilac ribbon floated around his throat, collapsing into a loose bow at his clavicle. “Something wrong?” Hal inquired when the coffee machine had finished its whirring. Caius had his usual morning pallor, but he wasn’t wearing socks under his plum-coloured Turkish leather slippers, and Hal knew what that meant.

“I’m tired, my dear,” Caius told him apologetically, “nothing to fret over. You should go back to the Professor – he’s sighed over that crossword six times since I got here barely two minutes ago. Must be a tough one today, and I know how very good you are solving crosswords, Hal.”

Hal blushed again, his freckles fading under the pink heat of his cheeks, and he added an extra dash of hazelnut syrup to Caius’ mocha, and a sprinkle of cinnamon for delight.  
“Really, though,” he murmured under his breath as he placed the drink on the table.

“I’ll tell you later, darling,” Caius said with a wink, which wasn’t as cheerful as it might have been. It looked a lot, Hal thought, like little Caius had been at a party last night.

Caius was only seventeen – a fact which he got very cross about if mentioned – but, as far as Hal knew, already a post grad. The only explanation he ever got out of Thom was an eye-roll and a muttered _child prodigy_. Despite his young age, or maybe because of it, Caius spent all the time that he wasn't scribbling out last-minute essays or fussing with his hair and clothes at various parties and clubs, drinking, dancing and being picked up by cute hipster boys who were too drunk to ask if he was legally old enough to give them blow jobs in the toilets.

Hal brought another latte over to Royston, who took it gratefully. He was just about to take pity on him and just tell him the answer to the clue when the door was pushed open again, this time rather forcefully and accompanied by a triumvirate of noisy, hung over airmen. After a short scuffle over seating arrangements, they slumped onto the nearest table, and Hal identified a half-asleep Rook, a pale and queasy looking Balfour, and Niall, who gave a little wave in his direction and winked.

“Breakfast?” Hal asked, not even bothering to take out his note pad.

“Yes, please,” Balfour croaked. He was always unfailingly polite. Rook only gave a grunt, which might well have been a snore, seeing as his eyes were hidden behind his hand.

“Better make it four,” Niall said, flashing his battered smartphone. “Luv's on his way.”

“Coming right up.”

With one last wistful look at Royston, Hal went back around the counter and took the stairs into the kitchen, where Thom was slicing cheese for the sandwiches.

“Four airmen specials,” Hal told him from the doorway. “Extra bacon, extra greasy. Your brother's here, by the way. And can you toast a few crumpets for Caius? He looks like he needs it.”  
Thom gave him a salute and quickly drained his second cup of tea before busying himself with the toast. Hal went back to make coffee for Rook and Niall and tea for Balfour, who drank Darjeeling with lemon when he was hung over, and with milk when he wasn't.

Caius had his head in one hand and his coffee wrapped in the other and was staring into space. Royston had apparently finished with his crossword and was flipping moodily through the rest of the paper, which meant he would leave soon, and Hal's heart gave a tiny squeeze at the thought. He brought the airmen's beverages over to their table, smiled at Balfour's quiet _thank you_ and went to fetch Caius' crumpets, which were tender and steaming and laid out on a plate with butter and strawberry jam.

“Breakfast,” Hal announced briskly and set the plate down in front of Caius, who blinked. “If you don't eat it, I'll get Rook to mess up your hair.”

“Charming,” Caius grumbled, but picked up half a crumpet anyway.

The door opened again to admit Luvander in a flurry of hot pink raincoat and cheerful _hello_ s. He kissed Niall and Balfour on the cheek before sitting down, wisely omitting Rook, who was still glaring at everyone and everything and tapping his fingers on the table in anticipation of breakfast.

“Well,” Luvander said, loud enough for everyone in the café to overhear. “What a night.”

Hal made him a cappuccino while Luvander fussed over Balfour, and then Thom brought out the first two plates piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, buttered toast and sausages. He didn't get more than a grunt from Rook, but Thom was used to being treated like this by his older brother.

“Thom,” Balfour said, the first smile of the day on his lips. “How are you?”

“He's fucking fine, now shut up and eat your breakfast or I'll eat yours as well,” Rook growled. Hal brought out the last two plates for Niall and Luvander before going over to Royston's corner with the bill, leaving them to tuck into their food and bicker over who'd drunk the most alcohol the night before.

“Did you figure it out, then?” Hal asked, smiling brightly, because that was all he could ever do around Royston.

“No,” Royston sighed, but tipped him generously nonetheless. He always did.

“The answer is -” Hal began, only he was drowned out by a raucous burst of laughter from the airman table, and before he had collected his bearings, Royston had swept his coat from the back of the chair and stood up.

“Thank you for the coffee, it was perfect, as always,” he said. “Well, have a nice day, Hal.”

Hal's throat closed up at the sound of his name. He couldn't help it; it was an automatic reaction every time Royston said it, had been since that first time Royston had squinted down at his name tag and thanked him for the coffee.

“You too,” he finally choked out when Royston was already out the door. He groaned.

“Hey, Hal! Stop mooning over your professor and get your arse into gear, we need some more coffee here.”

With a sigh, Hal collected the empty mugs from the airmen's table and went back to work. Caius had managed to eat half of the crumpets and all of the strawberry jam and was in need of a refill himself, and Hal leaned a little closer to the counter while preparing the orders.

“So?” he asked, quietly so the airmen wouldn't overhear. Not that there was any danger, seeing as they were currently busy teasing Thom about having left the pub sober last night.

Caius sighed, shuffled forwards and swept away the strands of hair that were obscuring his brown eye. There was a dark purple thumbswipe of a bruise underneath it, and Hal couldn't suppress a little hiss of sympathy.

Caius grinned. “It's not as bad as it looks,” he said. “Nothing to worry about, just a little, ah, incident. It's what you get for chatting up the wrong sort.” He sniffed and let his hair fall back to obscure his eye again. “Needless to say, I went home alone after that. And guess who was on guard duty at three in the morning?”

“No!” Hal said, just to humour him.

“ _Yes_ ,” Caius whispered. “It was _mortifying_ ; he even asked if I was alright.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Yes, of course. Although... I might not have made it quite that clear. I was very drunk by this point, after all.”

“Of course,” Hal nodded sympathetically, “but what happened?”

“Well, obviously nothing productive,” Caius sighed, flopping back against his cushions, wan and wilting. “Nothing charming or delightful. He just waved me on with an adorable chuckle and told me to look after myself better,” he added with a grimace which implied this was a heinous notion.

Hal was about to suggest, as kindly as possible, that perhaps Caius’ handsome porter – the one he only ever referred to as ‘The General’ – had a point, but was rudely interrupted by another ruckus of noise from the airmen-occupied table. “Coffee,” Luvander was pleading, banging his fist on the table so the cutlery jumped and clanked against the plates. “Coffee, coffee please, my dearest Hal. Also Thom get back in the kitchen,” he added with a smirk – there was little the airmen enjoyed so much as teasing Thom about going to university not making him so posh he didn’t still have to wipe up after them. “You lazy tit. What’re you doing standing about slacking like this, making eyes at Niall like you’ve never seen his pretty lips before, that’s not going to get you a degree, is it? No excuse either, you barely even had a beer last night.”

“I had work to do,” Thom reminded them, grudgingly stacking their plates nonetheless.

“You’ve got work to do now too, so fuck off and do it,” Rook growled.

“I thought breakfast would put you in a better mood,” Balfour suggested gently.

“I _am_ in a better mood,” Rook said, a pleased little smile playing around his lips. “Doesn't mean I can't insult my little brother.”

Hal brought over the coffees and got himself a hearty bum slap from Luvander for his troubles. A very un-ladylike squeak escaped him, and he clapped a hand over his mouth, glaring at Luvander over the top of his fingers.

“Sorry,” Luvander said, looking anything but. “I had to do that at least once.”

“Was it as firm and luscious as it looks?” Niall asked.

“Even firmer and lusciouser,” Luvander promised, and they high-fived before immediately launching into their favourite routine of Niall singing _What you gonna do with that big fat butt?_ and Luvander finishing with _WIGGLE WIGGLE WIGGLE_ and a practical demonstration.

Hal was stupendously glad that Royston had left already.

As the boys began getting their things together and grumbling to their feet - Balfour still looked horribly pale in spite of breakfast, and Hal wasn’t completely convinced he was going to manage punting at all. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if before his shift on the river finished at five, he didn’t reappear soaked and miserable from stumbling off Anastasia and into the Cam. “One out, one in,” he heard Caius mumble as Luvander and Niall continued their song and dance routine in the doorway, and looked up to realise that the departure of one group of airmen meant nothing more than the arrival of the next.

“What’s going on here,” Raphael called cheerfully over Niall’s head, grabbing Balfour in a full-body, two-armed hug and resting his chin on Balfour’s head. “You signpost boys, you’re losing your touch, there’s nothing on the chalkboard, Hal - and Caius, why’re there no pictures on today’s soup sign? I was looking forward to what you might do with Thai Spiced Carrot. You alright?” Hal heard his murmur against Balfour’s hair afterwards, as he sidled past with the dual purpose of trying to clear the last of the plates, and also usher Rook and Luvander closer to out the door rather than blocking it.

“Fine. Can you move? It’s just, we’re in everyone’s way.”

“Mmm no. Not going anywhere. Just going to stand here and hug you for a bit, because you need it,” Raphael said cheerfully.

“Oh,” Balfour said.

“Young love,” Luvander sighed, trying to squeeze past Raphael’s broad shoulders and almost tripping over Ivory in the process, who shot him one of his scarier looks. To anyone who knew, it was painfully obvious that Ivory and Raphael were, in fact, an item - the thing was, Luvander _didn’t_ know.

Hal went into the kitchen with the last plates, so he missed the rest of the exchange, but by the time he was firmly installed behind the coffee machine again, the first group was gone and Raphael, Ivory and Ghislain were occupying the just vacated table. Raphael had apparently just finished telling Ivory exactly how many times Balfour had thrown up last night after coming back from the pub, and there was a small, dainty scowl on Ivory’s face as he asked “Will he be alright to work?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ghislain said, accepting his coffee from Hal with a grateful smile. “Kid’s tougher than he looks.”

“What should I put on the chalk board today?” he asked their advice, since these three didn’t appear to have been part of last night’s party shenanigans, whatever they had been. “Do any of you want food?”

Raphael waved this aside with a cheerful “we’ve eaten,” and Ghislain suggested “how about you make the sign in honour of that depressing, pathetic crew who just left us and the state they must have shown up in earlier - something along the lines of _you are only as strong as your coffee_?”

“You are only as strong as the coffee you drink,” Caius edited, and Ghislain threw him a comradely salute. “Speaking of, Hal, my dear, can you make me another? With a double shot? I think I should try and make amends for my own disaster last night, but I’ll definitely need more caffeine and sugar for that.”

“Oh, are you sure?” Hal frowned.

“Absolutely,” Caius smirked loudly, “I have just had the most darling idea.”

Before Hal could inquire as to the details behind the darling idea, the door was pushed open once again, admitting a thoroughly rumpled looking Evariste. To be fair, he looked like this most days, mainly on account of his impossible fly-away hair, but it _was_ slightly worse today.

“Yo, Ev, what are you doing up? I thought you had the day off?”

“Merritt’s driving me up the wall,” the newcomer grumbled, pulling at his hair and making it stand on end even more than before. He dropped into an empty seat, leaned back and crossed his feet at the ankles. “Tea, please, Hal? If I drink any more coffee I’ll have a fucking heart attack, and it’s all gonna be Merritt’s fucking fault.”

Hal shared a look with Caius and rummaged around for the last box of Assam and some biscuits. Evariste getting up before noon on his day off meant that he’d spent the night at Merritt’s, which usually meant that they’d had a fight at some point.

Or sex. Or both.

Squinting subtly across at Evariste as he folded himself on to the bench beside Ghislain, Hal decided it was probably both. He glanced again at Caius, raised an eyebrow, and the other boy nodded once. Caius was always right about whether or not somebody had been having sex.

“Is that a hickey?” Raphael squealed, leaning so far over the table he almost upended his tea, and prodding at Evariste’s collar; getting his wrist slapped for his pains.

“No,” Evariste scowled, turning pink, which meant yes.

“Don’t lie, it doesn’t suit you,” Ivory drawled, unimpressed. “Hal, can I get some lemon cake?”

It was Ivory’s slightly paradox way of getting someone out of a sticky conversation, and Hal went to fetch the cake and get some more biscuits for Evariste, who’d already downed half of his tea.

“What exactly happened last night, anyway?” Raphael asked, surreptitiously sliding his hand into Ivory’s under the table. “You were there, weren’t you?”

“Let’s see,” Evariste said, voice hoarse and tired. “Luv and Niall had one of their flirt-offs and took a couple of guys home - I know this, because I was up half the night listening to their _scream-off_ after that. Thom showed up at some point and got chatted up by this really fit bloke, but I don’t think anything happened, and then Balfour got smashingly drunk and wanted to take off his clothes. I don’t really remember much after that because Merritt stepped on my foot and wouldn’t apologise. Bloody _Merritt_.”

He sighed and raked his hand through his hair again, and Hal shared another look with Caius. Definitely sex, then.

"Also," Thom announced drily from the doorway at the top of the stairs to the kitchen, “no, nothing happened, in case anybody wasn’t sure. I went home because I had an essay to write.”  
“Thom’s here!” Ghislain and Raphael chorused, and Ivory threw a teabag at his head, with perfect aim as always. “You went home because you’re boring,” he corrected with a smirk.

Before Thom could answer, Evariste’s phone chimed with a text message, and he started cackling as soon as he’d tapped it open. “Guys,” he demanded, swivelling the phone on the table so that his friends could see it, “I forgot Compagnon had his camera last night.” Hal made Thom some more tea while the airmen laughed at whatever photos Compagnon had deigned to share - probably at poor Balfour’s expense, by the sound of things. “Oi, you three,” Evariste added, glancing up - his bad mood clearly abating, “we’re drinking tonight, you’d better be there. No excuses, Thom,” he levelled a finger and narrowed his eyes, “you’re don’t work Tuesdays.”

“I do,” Hal reminded them. “At half past six in the morning, too.”

“Yeah,” Raphael said around a slow grin and a stolen piece of his boyfriend’s lemon cake, “but you don’t need persuading. We’ll just get Luv to stop by when you’re closing up tonight and play one of your jams on his phone until you start dancing and that’s it, you’re ours. Don’t pretend you’re not.”

Hal didn’t pretend, which was why - when it came to closing - he made sure he hoovered the cushions on the sofa upstairs, because he was very likely going to be sleeping on for at least a handful of hours before opening up on Tuesday.

 

**Thom**

“THAT’S MY JAM!”

You wouldn’t know by looking at him, but Hal was a party animal. At the moment, he was doing one of his favourite dance routines with Caius to a _Panic! At The Disco_ song, which involved a lot of fake grinding, wrist flicking and butt wiggling. It was student night at Tuesday Street, and the club was sporting a disproportionate amount of gay boys tonight - although that might have been because half the airmen were at least part-time gays.

“What’s the matter, Thom-boy? I thought you wanted to enjoy your newly acquired tart status tonight,” said a voice into Thom’s ear, and Thom nearly choked on his beer.

“Hey Luv.”

“Hey to you too. Is it because your uber-straight brother’s here?”

“Maybe,” Thom sighed. “I also feel guilty for dragging Hal along, he has to open up the café at hideous o’clock tomorrow.”

Luvander draped himself over Thom’s shoulders and slid his beer out of his hands to take a long sip. He smacked his lips in satisfaction and then came around to face Thom.

“Hal knew what he was getting into,” he pointed out. “Besides, he’s enjoying himself, isn’t he? More than, if you ask me.”

“Niall’s been eyeing him up all night,” Thom confided, ignoring Luvander’s suggestive eyebrow wiggle. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?”

“Leave it to me, poppet.”

Luvander swallowed another mouthful of Thom’s beer and then disappeared into the dancing crowd with one last wink. He was wearing obscenely tight trousers, an equally tight t-shirt with the word _Queerios_ emblazoned across the front, and a darling little neckerchief in shocking pink, most likely to hide last night’s love bites. Thom watched as Luvander sidled up to Niall, whose grinding seemed a bit distracted, and started making moves on Niall’s dance partner. Immediately, Niall’s eyes lit up, and the two began their usual spiel of _who can get away with the sleaziest antics_.

“They’re doing it again, aren’t they?”

Balfour had come up beside him with an apologetic half-smile and clinked his beer bottle against Thom’s. He still looked a bit peaky, and Thom frowned at the way his hands were shaking noticeably even with the gloves on.

“You alright?”

“Yeah. Just still hung over.”

“Should you be drinking?”

Balfour grinned and shrugged without giving an answer. Feeling awkward, Thom pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and finished his beer, which was lukewarm by now.

“I think I should probably make sure Hal gets back to the café,” Thom sighed.

“Ah,” Balfour made, sounding almost disappointed. Thom had seen Rook giving him a hard time earlier, so maybe he’d been hoping for some solidarity, but the last thing Thom wanted to do right now was talk about his brother. In fact, he was looking forward to getting far away from Rook, and maybe sharing a cup of tea with Hal later before the latter passed out on the couch at Cindy’s. “It’s not even one yet,” he called out, but Thom was already shouldering his way through the crowds to liberate his colleague from the shady guys he was still uncertain whether he was allowed to call friends. Technically, they were his brother’s friends, who’d been barging their noisy and potentially offensive way into Thom’s life ever since Rook had joined the airmen seven years ago, at the age of nineteen. Thom had been barely sixteen, and spent most of his time shut up in his room reading, daydreaming about libraries and reliving famous battles in his head and his history books. In fact, Rook had been punting with the airmen for at least three months before some of them even knew he _had_ a brother, in spite of the numerous nights out which found their way back at the flat the two of them had shared.

He and Balfour had older brothers with rowdy, invasive, inappropriate friends in common - but Balfour’s brother liked him, whereas Thom was almost entirely sure that Rook would be much, much happier if he disappeared.

“Hal,” he made a grab for the boy’s wrist, stumbling him forward and against his own chest, where Hal giggled and clung, still wiggling in some sort of rhythm with whatever piece of ear-assaulting nonsense Tuesday Street was currently passing off as music. “Come on, kid, let’s take you home, ok?”

“No, no, not yet,” Hal laughed, “I’m jamming, dance with me Thom, come on.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Thom shook his head, unable to completely keep from smiling at Hal’s ridiculous good humour. He wouldn’t be so cheerful in the morning - Thom wondered if he could afford to lose a couple of hours sleep before his tutorial with Marius at nine, and let Hal crash in the kitchen while he made the coffee. “Whoops, careful there.” Despite the dancing, Hal was surprisingly unstable on his feet, and Thom had trouble keeping him upright. Hal himself wasn’t exactly helpful and just kept giggling whenever Thom lost his grip on him on their way through the crowd. “You sure you don’t just want to crash at mine, Hal?”

“Nooooo,” Hal moaned. “Cindy’s.”

“Here, let me help,” Balfour said, appearing at his side again and dragging one of Hal’s arms over his shoulders. “We can get him to the café together.”

“You’re a life-saver,” Thom sighed.

“Don’t mention it.”

Several small accidents and random bouts of singing on Hal’s part later, Thom and Balfour had finally managed to coax the boy onto the sofa at Cindy’s, and Thom was busy making tea for the three of them while Balfour fiddled with Hal’s shoelaces. It was ear-splittingly quiet in the café after the noise of the club, and Thom found himself deeply inhaling the soothing aroma of his chamomile tea.

“Honey?”

Balfour made a soft, choked noise, though Thom wasn’t sure why, then mumbled a quiet _yes please_ and trudged off to fetch them both chairs. Hal was already half asleep, one arm thrown up over his face and his breathing thick and hungry. Thom thought he heard him mumble something about toast - which had been the plan, if only to get something other than vodka in Hal’s stomach before morning, but it didn’t look like he was going to be up for it. Balfour, on the other hand, still looked peaky, and Thom frowned gently over the teacups. “You probably shouldn’t have come out tonight,” he said, carefully.

“I’m on the late shift, tomorrow,” Balfour shrugged, “thought it might help, you know? Hair of the dog.”

“That has never helped and you know it,” Thom retorted, handing over the steaming mugs of chamomile and honey. He dropped into the chair next to Balfour’s and stretched his legs out in front of him with a sigh, letting his head drop back against the counter, his body easing out into one long line. The weight of the day sloped off his shoulders and he cradled the too-hot cup between his palms on his laps, ignoring the burning in his fingertips. “What even happened to you last night?” he suddenly remembered to ask. “Ev said something about you trying to take your clothes off, which is, um…” he paused, swallowed, and pursed his lips against what sounded like an accusation even though it wasn’t. “Well, it doesn’t sound like you.”

“Er,” Balfour made, and cleared his throat.

Thom raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“I think Ev must’ve got something mixed up,” Balfour muttered, sliding down in his seat as well. “He was, uh, busy with Merritt, anyway.”

“But,” Thom said, chewing on the words and scowling, “why’d you drink so much in the first place? Something happen?”

Balfour shook his head and took a too-large swallow of piping hot tea, making himself cough. Thom winced in sympathy, and thought that the pink colour in his cheeks looked rather cute on him.

“What about his tea?” Balfour asked in a hoarse voice, nudging Hal with his foot. “Should we wake him?”

“Nah,” Thom said. “Leave him. He’ll probably drink it cold in the morning and then throw up, which, you know. Might be a good thing.”

Balfour grimaced and wiped at his face as if to get rid of the expression. Maybe Thom had had a little too much to drink himself, because now that he’d noticed it, he couldn’t stop thinking that Balfour was cute. Not that he hadn’t before - being in close proximity to at least one of the airmen for the last eight or so years had been something of an eye-opener sexuality-wise for him, and damned if he hadn’t fantasised at least once about half of them.

“D’you want some toast?” he asked quickly, getting to his feet and sliding his scalding tea on to a table. Some slopped out over the side, but Thom was focusing on something to distract himself, and for an excuse to move out of such close proximity to his friend. Half of Thom’s mind had been thinking that he’d stay in the cafe too, just in case, and then he’d definitely be able to help out when Hal was inevitably a mess in the morning. Half of him had just now decided he needed to go home, alone, soon. He wasn’t sure which half to listen to, and toast seemed the best way to delay making a decision. “I’m having some,” he added, “Tuesday Street is so gross, it makes me hungry.”

“That - that doesn’t make any sense,” Balfour squinted up at him from underneath his hair, and Thom took his glasses off to wipe them on his t shirt, because Cindy’s was very, very warm.

“Yes, it does. In a twisted, Rook-sort of way.”

“Fair enough. And yes, I’d like some, thank you.”

It was a miracle, really, that the other airmen still hadn’t managed to tease the politeness out of Balfour. It was one more reason why he was Thom’s favourite. Niall’s number one joke about Balfour involved the line _say, would you mind terribly if I inserted my penis into your anus_ , and really, Thom needed to stop thinking about these things and start making toast, because he was not wanking in the loo at Cindy’s, no matter how clean they kept it.

Hal gave a tiny sputter of a snore when Thom returned with two plates of hot buttered toast, then smacked his lips and turned around on the sofa, still sound asleep.

“Wonder what his professor is going to say when he comes in tomorrow,” Thom mused. “He’s never seen him hung over before, I think.”

Balfour laughed.

“He wasn’t nearly as drunk as your brother,” he pointed out. “And Ace was well on his way to jumping out the window again.”

At Thom’s look, he hastily added: “Not… in a suicidal way. Just. You know. Ace.”

As unassuming as he looked by day, Ace was the one who got up to the most reckless stunts out of all of them at night. In fact, the first time Thom had met him had been when he’d accompanied his brother to the hospital after Ace had broken his leg bicycling down a hill.

“Don’t worry, Raph’s on Ace-duty tonight.”

“Ah,” Thom said, and noticed that his toast was gone. Balfour saw his disappointed look and tipped his last two slices onto Thom’s plate with a chuckle. Thom had rather a reputation in regard to his eating habits - though really, it wasn’t nearly as bad as Rook made it out to be.

“Thanks. You know, you can go back to Tuesday’s if you want, you don’t have to stay here on my account.”

“That’s alright,” Balfour said with a smile and a shrug. Now that they didn’t have anything to occupy themselves with anymore, his hands lay in his lap, clutched together to stop them from trembling. It was a relic from the motorcycle accident he’d been in shortly before Thom knew him, along with the burn scars that he usually covered up with fingerless gloves, but he had it under control most days. Unless he was drunk, or unwell, or nervous.

 

**Balfour**

They’d met when Thom was sixteen and Balfour eighteen, recently furnished with an offer for a place to read Philosophy at Anastasia College, and Amery had thrown a party at his shabby rented flat, inviting all his airman friends on the excuse that “you don’t have any friends, Bal, which is how you’ve got into Cambridge, but going to uni means you’re going to need to learn how to party properly, so consider this your pre-freshers freshers, ok?” Back then, the only faces that were still around were Raphael, Ghislain, Adamo of course, Magoughin and Rook - newly recruited, only nineteen himself but already scornful, difficult and - well - _Rook_. He’d dragged Thom along to Balfour’s party because “left him home alone last weekend and he tried to electrocute himself”. Balfour had bumped into him in the bathroom, the pair of them awkward and out of place.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here,” Thom had observed, quietly, “are you ok? It’s your party, isn’t it?”

Balfour had grimaced. “Not really. I’m Am’s excuse to have a party, that’s all.”

Thom’s mouth had crooked upwards in the corner and he’d pushed his glasses up his nose with his thumb. They were always sliding down his face back then. “Nice that he bothers,” he’d said, and Balfour’d never forgotten how it felt, that wounding, poisonous realisation that this quiet, awkward, party-avoiding boy was Rook’s brother, and how impossibly unfortunate that must be.

“Sometimes,” he’d shrugged.

An uncomfortable moment in the bathroom doorway had followed, and then Thom had curled himself sideways, against the wall, a streak of guilt wriggling across his features, and said “sorry, were you…” nodding towards the bathroom.

The next time they’d met had been in the summer, at Raphael’s birthday party. Luvander was around by that point, and he’d made it his mission to make sure Balfour experienced at least one hangover before starting university, so nobody remembered much of that night beyond the ugly amount of vomit and tears that ensued.

“First time we met,” Balfour asked Thom in the muted shade and heat of Cindy’s, Hal’s breathing a steady, contented, heavy backdrop, “I remember Rook saying he had to bring you to that party because you’d tried to electrocute yourself.” He slid a glance at Thom, sideways under his eyelashes. He was still picking at toast crumbs. “That true?”

“No, of course not,” Thom snorted. “A fuse blew and I couldn’t work out how to fix it, and somehow in Rook’s head that turned into _messing about with the electrics_.” He shook his head. “And he says I’m the one who’s too fanciful.”

“Rook says a lot of things,” Balfour pointed out. “Most of them are utter shite.”

Thom looked slightly pained, but didn’t contradict or scold him for his language. Then again, Thom’s repertoire of swear-words could rival Rook’s if he ever chose to employ it - Balfour had been lucky enough to witness this on two separate occasions so far, once where he’d taken Thom along for a ride on his motorbike, pressed snug against his back and squeezing his eyes shut from start to finish, and once after getting tossed in the Cam by Ghislain, Raphael and Evariste.

Balfour liked it when Thom swore. He sometimes wondered if it was possible to elicit those words out of him by - something other than pranks, anyway, but it wouldn’t do to let his mind go down that route tonight, when it was only the two of them and a snoozing barista, who chose this moment to jerk awake with a groan and a slurred “what the fuck”.

“Ah, pity,” Thom said cheerfully, “now I’ll have to make more toast.”

“Helloooo Balfour,” Hal said, trying and failing to manoeuvre himself into a halfway upright position. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yes, well, we were just about to discuss your upcoming birthday party, but seeing as you’re awake now…”

“Nooo,” Hal groaned. “Don’t stop, I’ll go back to sleep, I promise. See? Out like a light. Shh.”

He curled back in on himself and pretended to breathe very deeply, and Thom chuckled.

“Nice try, nellie boy.”

“Are you sure he’ll be alright to work tomorrow?” Balfour double-checked in an undertone.

“He won’t be any worse than you were this morning,” Thom raised an eyebrow. “Did you fall in? You looked like you might.”

“No,” Balfour replied haughtily, feigning insult at the very idea. Of course he hadn’t fallen in. The only times he’d fallen in the Cam had been before he’d ever been an Airman - he didn’t count the time Rook had shoved Anastasia with Havemercy so hard he’d lost balance. Neither of them had been carrying passengers - Adamo would’ve made too much noise about it if they had - so the only one who’d actually seen had been Rook, anyway.

“That doesn’t sound like birthday party talk,” Hal muttered, wriggling and then following it up with “I mean, um, snoring.”

“What a loser,” Thom said loudly, “I think we shouldn’t bother,” and Hal shot him the finger without opening his eyes.

“Are you staying here tonight, then?” Balfour asked him, wondering where Thom would find to sleep. Hal’s sofa was the only place in Cindy’s halfway big enough to form a sort of bed - and even that was cramped unless you were as tiny as Caius. Thom wasn’t tall - Balfour enjoyed that on the rare occasion he’d had to get close enough for a hug, because it meant Thom fitted perfectly against his shoulder and that was… nice… but he was no midget either, and sleeping in an armchair was no fun for anybody. “Where’ll you sleep? Sure I can’t walk you back to Versity?”

Ruefully, Thom shook his head, admitting “by the time I get back it’d be daylight anyway. There’s a pile of spare clothes downstairs - well, it’s mostly shit Caius leaves behind and forgets about, and Hal’s spare trousers and a sweater he nicked from Royston one time and somehow managed to lie about whether he’d left it here for a fortnight before he gave up looking for it. Only time Hal’s ever been dishonest with any success.”

“I imagine,” Balfour commented drily, “that he wasn’t very successful at all, but Royston probably enjoyed the game. You know what a tease he can be.”

“Mmm,” Thom nodded, “and how much he likes that idiot over there. Anyway,” he stretched out again, tiredness suddenly evident in the click of his joints and the unwitting groan the stretch produced, his jeans sitting low on his hips and offering Balfour a tiny, fleeting, hint of skin. “I’ll sleep on all that. It’s the kitchen hangover bed,” he added with a sleepy sort of grin,

“I’ve slept on it before, just - when I was supposed to be working.”

It was a fair half hour walk from Cindy’s back to the house Balfour shared with Ghislain and Raphael on Mill Road, and Thom was right - dawn was creeping grey and uninviting over the spires of Basquiat and Cobalt Colleges when he slipped out of Cindy’s, giving Thom a wave over his shoulder as the key turned behind him. He didn’t mind the walk, though. He didn’t see it too often, but this was his favourite time to walk through Cambridge streets - in the small hours, when you were more likely to meet cats than people. Sometimes, leaving pubs or parties or, like now, Cindy’s, Balfour wouldn’t see anything breathing at all until he reached his own front door. Other nights, there were straggling, tenacious party-goers, and the homeless who peppered the street doorways - if any were awake, he’d give them his spare change for a coffee when the cafés started opening.

He dug his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans and tried not to think about that sliver of Thom’s stomach he’d almost caught a glimpse of, or the thought of Thom curling up on that pile of old clothes for a bed, like some sort of desperate romantic heroine trapped somewhere hopeless. It wouldn’t do to turn Thom into someone who needed rescuing in his head - except, occasionally, if Rook was being especially mean. Even then, he wasn’t sure Thom would entirely thank him for it - or even that Balfour himself would be a good candidate for rescuer. Better someone butch and fierce who Rook sort of, halfway, a little bit, not that he’d admit it, looked up to - like Adamo or Ghislain.

By the time he got home, the dawn chorus was already tuning up, which Balfour resented slightly because he hated sleeping with his windows shut in summer - even when it rained - but the birds were far too noisy for him to be able to drift off. Ghislain’s windows were wide open, but he slept like the dead, and Balfour could hear soft music humming from Raphael’s room. He slid his shoes off inside the door and grimaced at the sweaty damp of his socks, deciding on a whim that - four a.m. be damned, he wasn’t working until two in the afternoon - he’d have a shower before going to bed. Might help rinse those thoughts of Thom out of his mind, too.

Except, of course, being naked and not thinking of Thom usually led to being naked, hard and thinking of Thom, and so this time was no different, with the still-warm handprint memory of Cindy's on his skin, the smell of chamomile and melting butter in his nose and the sound of that quiet, self-deprecating laughter in his ears. Balfour sighed, leaned his forehead against the tiles and let the water sluice down his burning back. It was no use, anyway, and even picturing the look on Thom's face if he could see him now didn't make his hard-on go down.

So he let the thoughts come, a viscous dribble of syrupy fantasies and half-memories, like the time he'd walked in on Thom wanking in his room, or the day Thom had peeled off Balfour's gloves and asked if he could touch his scars. Balfour shivered at the memory of Thom's cool fingers tracing his lifeline and sped up his hand.

“Balfour?” Raphael called through the door. “You ok mate?”

“Shit,” Balfour cursed, too far gone to stop himself from coming over his hand. Then, louder: “Yeah, fine.”

“Sure,” Raphael chuckled good-naturedly. “Just thought I'd check, since it's gone four and you've been in there an awfully long time. It'd be a hassle finding a new housemate if you passed out in the shower and drowned on our watch, you know.”

Turning off the shower, Balfour groped for his towel and nearly slipped on the wet tiles.

“Well, I'm done, so you can go back to bed and stop nagging,” he sighed.

 

**Luvander**

If you asked Luvander, the best things about Cindy’s were, in no particular order: their incredible range of tea, Hal’s freckles, the fact that they’d invented _The Airman Special_ as a specific hangover breakfast, all the opportunities to tease Thom, the way there was almost always someone he wanted to talk to, and the unbeatable skills their baristas had with cappuccino. At the other end of the scale, the very worst things about Cindy’s were, in no particular order: _The Airman Special_ meaning that on the rare occasion when he _didn’t_ want to talk to anyone, they’d be there anyway, the noise of the coffee grinder and espresso machine when his head was pounding, and – above all else – Hal’s superhuman ability to avoid hangovers when he really, really deserved them.

His eight a.m. “morning, Luv!” was so cheerful it was almost shrill, and Luvander winced as he shut the door behind him as quietly as possible. Cindy’s opened at seven from Tuesday to Saturday, for what was affectionately known as _grumpy hour_ , when take-away coffee was £1, commuter special. There was absolutely no way Hal had any right to be so happy and coherent, running as he must have been on the fumes of last night’s alcohol and a handful of hours kip on the couch. “Didn’t expect to see you,” he continued blithely, pouring fresh milk into a jug. “Isn’t it your day off?”

“Didn’t go home,” Luvander grunted, sliding himself into a chair well away from the window and cradling his head in his hands. Maybe he was getting old; two nights on the trot might be too much. Better not mention that anywhere Niall could hear though, there were already enough jokes about Luv’s approaching thirtieth birthday. He’d won the competition last night though, got himself invited – well, an insistent sort of an invite, but nonetheless – back to the dorms in Bastion where the boy Niall had originally been dancing with had a room. And had realised in the groggy, metallic aftertaste of waking up too early because he was in a strange bed, that said boy was a first year, and therefore younger than Hal, and therefore Luvander needed to sneak out now before he had to make conversation, because he hated when that happened. He didn’t have anything to talk about over uncomfortable post-one-night-stand breakfast with eighteen year olds. He squinted at Hal as he set a steaming mug of Morning Thunder down in front of him without being asked. “Why aren’t you,” he started, bitterly, and cut himself off short at Hal’s grin. “What are you made of?” he asked instead.

“Awesome and cute,” Hal replied promptly, perching himself on the table opposite and folding his arms over his apron. “Admit it, you’re jealous.”

Luvander mumbled “I hate you,” and closed his eyes. As soon as he’d drunk his tea he was going home to bed, to waste the rest of his day off sleeping. At least nobody else he knew was likely to come into Cindy’s this morning, so it was only Hal’s irrepressible perkiness he had to deal with. Until high summer season, none of the airmen had to work earlier than eleven, and it was always just Hal or just Charlotte who worked grumpy hour, the next staff member wouldn’t be in until half past eight to start prepping breakfasts. Which meant that when Thom appeared from the stairs to the kitchen, Luvander’s entire world view was disrupted, and he wasn’t sure how to make sense of anything anymore. “Are you two fucking,” he asked, expressionless.

“What?” Thom frowned.

“Just can’t think of any other reason why you’re both here when there should only be one of you.”

“He’s very tired,” Hal explained, meaning _he’s an idiot_ , “poor little brain can’t cope with anything not being the norm when he’s this tired. Probably should’ve gone home last night,” he added with an audible smirk.

Luvander didn’t have the energy to respond with _probably so should both of you_ or _why didn’t Thom then, it’s his day off too, why is he even here, none of this makes any sense, are you sure you’re not fucking_. He didn’t want Thom and Hal to be sleeping together on the floor at Cindy’s, or messing around behind the counter; making the kitchen unhygienic. Not because he cared about hygiene, but because he had Big Plans to help Hal ensnare his favourite professor, and because it would ruin his favourite punch line about that one time Thom had given him a blow job. That would stop being fun once Thom was giving someone else blow jobs on a regular basis, especially if it was someone like Hal who, Luvander imagined, didn’t even know jealousy was a human emotion, let alone what it felt like. Anyway, surely they realised that their relationships were his business; nobody was getting involved with anybody else without his help.

Thom made a miserable little sound as he slumped into a seat at Luvander’s table and stretched.

“Not doing that again,” he muttered, and Hal gave his back a sympathetic pat and went to make more tea.

Luvander arched one eyebrow, trying to somehow convey the words _do what again, sleep with Hal? Because I could’ve told you that was a bad idea_ with the gesture, but Thom only rubbed at his eyes and sighed.

“Don’t worry,” Hal said from behind the counter, “I’m saving myself for the Professor, remember? Thom just slept in the kitchen because he was too stubborn to go home with -”

The last part was cut off when the door was thrown open, admitting a frazzled looking Caius with an armful of library books, his laptop and a pair of pink sunglasses perched on top.  
“Good morning, Halcifer,” he sniffed, sliding into his usual seat by the counter and proceeding to empty the contents of his bag onto the bench next to him. “I need some coffee pronto, forgot I had an essay due today.”

He was wearing a pair of leggings and a button-down shirt that was so long it might have been a dress. As he started typing feverishly into his laptop, he pushed the sunglasses into his hair, but they kept sliding down until he pinned them in place with a hair-clip.

“Your porter not working this morning?” Hal asked, his fingers poised over the selection of syrups. At last, he chose chocolate for Caius and vanilla for himself.

“No,” Caius pouted, still typing.

“Ah, maybe later today, then,” Hal said bracingly.

Luvander took a tentative sip of Morning Thunder. It was one of his favourites for hangover breakfasts, the taste cleansing like the air after a storm - it was so aptly named, too - but still cosy, like waking up and knowing you still had an hour before the alarm clock would go off. Thom seemed to be stirring under the gentle ministrations of his Russian Caravan as well, but it would be a while yet before he started to talk. Apart from the occasional commuter coming in for their to-go special offer, Cindy’s was quiet so early in the morning, filled with soft steam from the coffee machine and the slap-slap of Caius’ flip-flops against the tiles. Occasionally, Hal would turn on the radio and hum along to whatever mindless pop ballad was currently playing.

“So, Caius,” Luvander asked, pursing his lips around the rim of his mug, “did you go home with anyone last night?”

“Only the lovely Mistress Regret and Procrastination,” Caius replied absently, without looking up from his laptop.

“Speaking of,” Thom mumbled blearily into his mug, eyes still closed, “‘ve’got tutorial at nine, whass’ time?”

“You’ve got twenty-five minutes,” Hal informed him cheerfully, “so fifteen to finish your tea and work out how to talk in complete sentences, if you want a full ten to get to College without looking like you ran all the way.”

Thom grunted, which wasn’t promising. Fifteen delicious minutes of beautiful silence later, he heaved himself upward with what looked like monumental effort and blinked myopically at Luvander as he took his glasses off to wipe them on his t-shirt. “Do I look awake?” he asked, still slurry. Thom had never been good for much first thing in the morning, even if he’d slept in a proper bed.

“Well,” Luv pursed his lips to the side and contemplated. “Your eyes are open.”

Thom nodded, slowly, sliding his glasses back on. “That’ll do,” he decided, hooking his bag out from behind the counter and giving his t shirt a miserable glance as he tugged at the hem. It was too small, really, and Luvander thought he recognised it as one of Jeannot’s, though he didn’t ask. “Later,” Thom mumbled giving him half a wave and nodding at Caius, who lifted his fingers in half a salute, engrossed in a passage from a heavy library book, hair in his eyes in spite of the clips. “Hal, I hate you,” he added before stumbling out the door and up the passageway on the quickest route to Versity Hall.

“He’s got no right to hate me,” Hal informed Caius and Luvander with a sniff, leaning on the counter with his elbows, chin propped in his palms to add slyly: “he could just as well have gone home with Balfour, he knew I’d be fine.”

Luvander nearly spilt his tea. “What?” he span in his seat to check Hal’s face for any unlikely signs of a tease, and his head swam - _too fast_ , he reminded himself, _moving too fast, old man, watch yourself_ , his hangover catching up to slap him in the face with a reminder that it was still very much present.

Hal grinned at him over the counter. Nobody loved gossip quite like Luvander. “Mmmhm,” he nodded dreamily, “they put me to bed and shared toast and talked awkwardly and quietly about _the past_ , you know,” he circled one wrist lazily in the air. “So precious. Thom’s got no idea, you know how he is, all history books and old wars. Could tell you which kings had which consorts without having to try, but he can’t read a real-life room and its UST to save his life.”

“You know, Hal,” Luvander mused, already giving up on sleep for the day. He’d pay for it tomorrow on his 12-6 in the sun no doubt, but this was too good. “If you weren’t so dedicated to your one true love, you’d remind me of myself. Could you,” he leaned back in his chair, tilting his head up and trying his best to look charming - not an easy feat in his current state, but worth a go. “D’you fancy making me some breakfast?”

“We’re not open for breakfast until nine,” Hal said primly, “also, Lottie’s late.” He frowned. “I hope she isn’t unwell, still.”

“Yes, but,” Luvander persisted, “couldn’t you be a darling and just pop some toast on for me?”

Hal sighed. “Only if you tell me how you’re going to help Thom and Balf move things along,” he agreed, grudgingly. “I want in on the fun. And I’m going to call Charlotte, first. If she’s ill, you’re going to work in the kitchen,” he pointed one threatening finger at Luvander. “At least until Thom’s tutorial is done. It’s what you deserve for being a slut.”

“Charming,” Luvander replied, but directed it to his near-finished mug of tea with a smirk. He felt suddenly a lot more alive, with a new prospect to play with. If Thom got together with Balfour, it would be in Luv’s best interests - he’d still be able to talk about that one time Thom gave him a blow job as much as he wanted, with the double benefit of annoying Balfour.

Also, he couldn’t imagine anything which would enrage Rook more, and that was always a reason to celebrate.

 

 


End file.
